


to thine own self be true (though the mirror is cracked)

by angelsdemonsducks



Series: tumblr prompts [7]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders Angst, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders Needs a Hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Innuendo, It's not the focus though, Logic | Logan Sanders Is A Good Friend, M/M, Mild Gore, Minor Violence, Remus is a good brother, Swearing, Sympathetic Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, one-sided intrulogical, or at least he's trying, though you're welcome to fill in the gaps there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:40:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26915281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelsdemonsducks/pseuds/angelsdemonsducks
Summary: Roman is beingboring.Roman is being boring, but it’s not the usual kind of boring. This boring is different. There’s an edge to everything that Roman does, these days, a line of burning-desperation-need-hopelessness, and while Remus just loves to see his brother suffer, he’s not sure that he likes this.Wherein Roman is struggling, Remus is trying his best, and Logan would just like people to behave in ways that make sense, please.
Relationships: Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders & Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders
Series: tumblr prompts [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1843297
Comments: 20
Kudos: 195





	to thine own self be true (though the mirror is cracked)

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: platonic creativitwins?? i love me a good sibling content. 25. "Do you need anything?" + 94. "You're the best" if you dont mind bc i rlly want them to get along and be dumb brothers together
> 
> This is... probably significantly more angsty than that, but they get there in the end. 
> 
> Also, this fic is from Remus' pov, so besides the tags, here are some additional content warnings: animal death mention, bug mentions, injury mentions, and general Remus-typical levels of inappropriateness. (And as always, please feel free to let me know if there's anything I missed!)

Roman is being _boring_.

Not that this is anything new. Roman’s boring in general, all princes and knights and dragons and lame fairy tales that follow the same formula: princess or prince gets captured, dragon or witch or dragon-witch or manticore-chimera or whatever gets fought, princess gets rescued, everyone goes home, yadda yadda yadda. Predictable as stabbing someone and dropping them into shark-infested waters; which shark bites first might change, but the end results are the same every time, tearing pain and screams and blood clouding the water. And Remus just doesn’t _get_ it. Why go for ideas that are so dull when he is literally right here, ready to offer Thomas the full spectrum of his creative ability?

But whatever. That’s not the point. Roman’s the point, and even though Remus has fantasized about sticking a pointy thing through him, like a big knife, that’s not what he means either, alas.

Roman is being boring, but it’s not the usual kind of boring. This boring is different. There’s an edge to everything that Roman does, these days, a line of burning-desperation-need-hopelessness, and while Remus just loves to see his brother suffer, he’s not sure that he likes this. Because this new boring Roman locks himself up in his room for days on end, sitting at his desk and scribbling on papers and muttering to himself and crying sometimes, and, well. Remus is very good at breaking into Roman’s room, and it used to be that Roman would get angry, would yell, would fight him, would toss him out on his ass while he cackled, and it was such _good fun_ , getting a rise out of him, watching all the colors his face would turn.

He doesn’t do that anymore.

Now, Roman barely blinks, no matter what he pulls. Remus could dance naked in front of him, his intestines falling out of his gut and wrapping around him like a feather boa, and Roman would just stare, blank and tired. And Remus would know, because he _tried_ that, among other things, and it’s all the _same_.

It’s boring. Roman is boring. And Remus doesn’t like it. He’d even go so far as to say that he hates it.

The biggest problem is that he doesn’t know what to do to get things back to normal. They have to, obviously, because he’s not going to be able to tolerate this for much longer. He’s gone so far as to shriek right in Roman’s ear, trying to burst his eardrum and see how much blood would come out, and Roman didn’t react to that at all, barely even _flinched_ , and that’s just not going to cut it.

He’d try cutting Roman, if he thought that would do anything. He’s pretty sure it won’t. So. He’s going to need some advice on this one.

“Hey nerd!” he yells, kicking Logan’s door in. “You decent?”

The question is rhetorical, because Logan’s just sitting at his desk, regarding him wearily. He is, unfortunately, fully clothed. He always is, somehow, when Remus does this, and Remus is beginning to suspect some sort of superpower. A Remus-radar, warning Logan of when he’s about to burst in so that he knows to put his pants on.

Though really, he’s not certain that Logan ever takes his pants off. He wouldn’t be surprised. Remus would absolutely be willing to do that for him; Logan’s so tightly wound, he could use a good—

“Do you need something, Remus?” Logan asks, calm and measured, just like always. That’s what Remus likes about him; he takes everything that he does in stride, and sometimes, he even seems interested in what he has to say. No one else ever is.

“Your dick in my ass,” he answers on instinct, and is gratified by Logan’s eyeroll. “But yeah, I got a question for you.”

Logan tries to mask the way his face lights up at that, but Remus knows better. Logan is, at heart, a slut for people asking him for help.

“Very well,” Logan says. “I’ll answer it if I can. What’s the question?”

“Say somebody you knew was acting weird,” he says. It’s funny, but suddenly, he’s not sure how to describe the situation. “Like, just, off. Month-old curdled milk kind of off. And you didn’t know how to make them not off, and you could drink the curdled milk but even that loses its flavor after a while, you know? And the stomach pain can be really _exciting_ , if you do it right, but not if it lasts forever. How do you un-curdle the milk?”

Logan blinks at him, and furrows his brows so that there’s a neat little divot between them. Remus wants to poke his forehead to see if his finger fits in that spot. He bets that it would. And he bets that if he dug his fingernail in hard enough, he could break the skin and flesh and touch Logan’s skull, and that would be really cool.

“To my knowledge, there is no way to… _un-curdle_ milk once it’s spoiled,” Logan says slowly. “But I assume you’re not actually talking about dairy products.”

He shrugs. “I could be,” he says. “Dairy’s fun. But yeah, no. Assume away.”

Logan nods. “Your metaphor is confused, to say the least, but I think I get the gist. If someone you know is acting differently, especially in a negative manner—” He pauses here, and the understanding that flashes in his eyes makes Remus feel a little bit strange, like he’s seeing right through him, past all his wet, squishy bones and down to the soul he knows he doesn’t have— “then I believe that your first step should be to ask them what’s wrong, and if you can help. I know that sensitivity is difficult for you, but being genuine in your desire to empathize would go a long way.”

He scowls. “You think I haven’t tried that? He won’t _say_ anything.”

Logan arches a brow. It looks like a fuzzy caterpillar squirming around on his face. “Have you?” he asks. “Or have you just been trying to provoke a reaction from him?”

He scowls harder, because Logan’s right, and Logan _knows_ it, and it’s annoying. He’s not sure what else Logan expects from him. It’s not his _job_ to go around being sincere and concerned about people. It’s his job to cause the concern. It’s his job to _be_ concerning, to be gross and nasty and ugly, and usually, he delights in that, delights in the chaos and the mayhem and his own unpredictability.

But in times like these, he remembers what he’s lacking. He knows better than to long for what he doesn’t have, can’t have, but he does wonder what it would be like, sometimes, to be able to see the world like the rest of them do. To be able to care about them like they all care about each other— though that’s at least partially bullshit, considering how much they hurt each other, too. At least he’s honest about what he is.

“So I should ask,” he repeats. “With words?”

“With words.”

“And that’s going to… work?”

“There’s no guarantee,” Logan admits. “But it’s a start. It’s difficult to help someone before they let you in.”

“Huh.” He chews on that for a second. “Let you in to their butthole?”

“Leave my room immediately.”

Remus doesn’t, because honestly, who does Logan take him for? But he doesn’t linger for too much longer, out of consideration for the advice the nerd has given him, if nothing else. And he’s ready and eager to put it to the test, to see if this is what will finally snap Roman out of his perpetual funk.

Roman is sitting at his desk, like usual. He’s hunched over, writing something, and the light in his room is definitely too dim to see well by, but whatever. If Roman wants to end up with dumb clunky glasses like Logan and Daddy Dumbo, that’s his business. Remus isn’t here to be worried about his health. Remus doesn’t _do_ that.

“Oh Rooooooman,” he trills, wiggling closer, and then closer, and then he’s right at Roman’s side, leaning over his shoulder and staring at… whatever it is Roman’s writing. It looks like chicken scratch to him, but then, Roman’s handwriting has always been atrocious. “Rooooooooooooooooooman.”

Roman casts a glance at him, and it’s brief, but hey, progress is progress, right?

“Hey Roooooooman,” he says, and then pauses, realizing that he really doesn’t know how to do this. Oh well. He’ll work it out as he goes. Planning is hardly his strong suit, but things tend to work out for him anyway. “Whatcha doin’?”

“Working,” Roman bites out, short and sharp, but that doesn’t dissuade him. He deals with shorter, sharper things all the time, and Roman really is dumb if he thinks he has anything on dearest Dee Dee when he gets in a snit.

“Kinda looks like scribbles to me, but sure,” he agrees. “What are you working on?”

“It’s a story,” Roman answers, even shorter and sharper, like his voice is trying to grow knives to cut him with. Huh. That might be interesting. Somebody who could, like, sprout knives from their throat. Or maybe, whenever they talk, they projectile vomit a knife at whoever’s annoying them. “So why don’t you go somewhere else?”

“I don’t feel like it,” he says. “What kind of story?”

Roman makes a sound like a strangled puppy, or like someone who’s doing the strangling, maybe. Strangling a puppy. He’ll send that one up to Thomas.

“It’s a good story,” he snaps, “with epic quests and heroism, and other stuff that someone like _you_ would never understand. So why don’t you fuck off?”

“I probably wouldn’t,” he agrees, and leans further over his shoulder, squinting at the pages. He’s not going to comment, really, he isn’t, but something catches his attention, and the words come spilling out. “Is this really just a knight fighting a dragon? I mean, don’t you think that’s a little _uninspired_?”

He doesn’t really mean anything by it. It’s just his opinion, and Roman never thinks that his opinions count for very much, so why should this be any different? But Roman’s expression darkens, closing off, and his hands clench into fists. The pen he’s holding snaps, and dark ink spills out across his hand. Remus watches in fascination; in the dim lighting, it looks like blood.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Roman says.

He blinks. “Bothering you?” he says, only that’s not right, because that’s not why he’s actually here. He’s been doing a pretty poor job of it so far, he supposes, but he’s trying to— “Helping you?”

Roman laughs, and it sends a chill down his spine, because that isn’t how Roman is supposed to laugh. This sound is bitter and cold and dry, not warm and rich and loud. Not Roman.

Roman stands, but he keeps looking straight ahead, and Remus thinks that if looks could kill, the wall would be very, very dead. “Helping me?” he repeats. “You think you’re helping me?” He turns his head toward Remus, then, and the vitriol in his eyes takes him by surprise. There’s no fire in it, just shadows, enough to rival Virgil on top form. “I guess you’d want the dragon to eat the knight, huh? And maybe the princess too?”

That still sounds a little bit vanilla by his standards, but… “Uh, maybe?”

Roman snorts.

“So how exactly do you think you’d be able to help me?” he demands. “If you had your way, Thomas would be a, a depraved serial killer! An evil fiend! So you’re absolutely nuts if you think I’m going to go looking for help from _you_. And that’s if I needed it, which I _don’t_.”

He blinks. “I do have nuts, yes,” he agrees, and then the rest of Roman’s statement catches up to him. “And _you’re_ nuts if you really think you don’t need help. I mean, you’re hiding in here like some kind of cave gremlin, hunched over your work and muttering like a crazy person—” He pauses, considering. “Hey, wait, maybe you are the crazy one. Wouldn’t that be funny, if you were the crazy one and I was the… huh. Well. Less crazy one, I guess.”

Roman’s face goes blank.

“Get out,” he says.

“Aw, but I haven’t even—”

“Get. Out.”

Roman’s voice is low and furious, and suddenly, Roman has him by his collar, and he’s about to make a wildly inappropriate comment about that, just for the sake of making everyone uncomfortable, but before he can blink, he’s being physically thrown from Roman’s room, landing on his ass in the hallway, the door slamming shut behind him. The last thing he sees is Roman’s face, angry like he’s never seen him before, and somehow, scared, scared like he’s looked into hell and seen the face of the devil himself and not cared much for it.

Well, alright. What the fuck was that about, then? He didn’t even get around to asking the question that was the point of the whole visit in the first place.

He’s willing enough to shrug and let it go, to say _I tried_ and move right along, because he is, as ever, himself, and he doesn’t particularly like to stay tied down to one topic. Too dull, that way. And if Roman’s going to insist on not solving his emotional issues, then really, it’s not his problem. He’ll find something else to do until his dearest brother gets his head out of his ass and decides he actually wants to start living life again.

But something about Roman’s face is bothering him, something about his reaction creeping under his skin and itching, like a nasty rash, or like wasps have crawled up against his bones and laid eggs there.

Scared. Why did he look scared?

Virgil is scared of him. Patton is scared of him. Roman’s never been scared of him, and something isn’t adding up here.

“Oh,” he realizes, sometime later. “Wait. He’s not scared of me, he’s scared of himself.”

“How the hell did you get up there?” Logan asks.

“Duct tape, perseverance, and my inherent sex appeal,” he says, and wiggles around where he’s taped to Logan’s ceiling. “What do you think?”

“What do I think about what?” Logan asks. “Your sex appeal?”

“I mean, if you wanna talk about that, I’m not complaining,” he says. “But no, I mean my brother.”

“Not his sex appeal, I hope,” Logan mutters, and he cackles. “You’re asking me if I think he’s scared of himself?”

He hums, and decides to peel himself off the ceiling, landing on the floor with a crunch. Logan doesn’t bat an eye.

“I don’t pretend to understand how Roman thinks,” he says. “I certainly don’t believe he has any reason to be scared of himself. But with the divide that almost everyone is insistent on drawing between you and him, I think that it’s plausible that he believes he has to keep himself as different from you as he possibly can. A self-imposed juxtaposition of good versus evil, you might say. And with what Janus said to him after the wedding, I imagine that some insecurities might be flaring up.”

He finishes putting all his bones back in the normal places and tilts his head. “What Janus said?” he echoes, more than a little confused, because what Janus said had been hilarious. It’s so funny to work him up and watch him go; he gets downright venomous when he’s provoked, and not just in the literal sense, and what he’d spat at Roman? Calling _him_ the evil twin? Absolutely the highlight of the evening.

He hadn’t considered that Roman might not see it that way.

“He’s been confronted with a lot, lately,” Logan says, “not least of which the idea that he might not be the archetypal perfect prince that he’s always fancied himself as. So he’s attempting to hide from the idea, which is absurd, considering the fact that you can’t hide from _ideas_.”

He blinks. “So, he’s not perfect? That’s what’s he’s upset about? I could’ve told him that. Nobody’s perfect.” Seriously, is he the only one who gets that? Everyone else is always so concerned with making Thomas so very _good_ , putting so much pressure on themselves all the time to be the _best_ that they can be, but he thinks that Thomas and all the rest of them could benefit from _living_ a little more.

Logan laughs a bit, soft and sweet, and his stomach goes a bit mushy. Weird, that.

“No one gives you enough credit for how perceptive you are. Yes, I believe that’s the problem.” Logan pauses. “To be honest, I’ve been hoping that Roman would divest himself of the mindset at one point or another, but… not like this. I wanted him to learn it in a way that would help him to grow, but this isn’t that, clearly.”

“No shit,” he observes, perceptively, because he’s perceptive, apparently! Nice! “He’s fucking destroyed over it.”

Logan winces. “Well, yes,” he says, “I suppose that’s one way to put it.”

“Okay, so, we gotta do something about that.” His mind whirs, running at about a million trillion miles per hour, fast enough for a person’s skin to get ripped off their body if they were traveling that fast, and— no. He’s focusing. Or trying to, at least, and it’s really fucking hard ( _hard! ha!_ ), but this is important, damn it, and Logan’s room makes it easier, at least, forces his thoughts to line up in a way that makes a little more sense. “Him knowing that he’s not perfect is a good thing. But him thinking that he’s— what did Jannie say? That he’s the evil twin? Him thinking that isn’t good. So he needs to not think that. How do we get him to not think that?”

Suddenly, this has gone past a desire to get him to stop being boring. Remus isn’t entirely sure where it’s landed, but it’s somewhere different, more emotionally fraught, and he’s not sure he wants that, but he definitely doesn’t want things to stay like they are, so. Onward, then.

“I would try,” Logan says softly, “but I’ve found in the past that my way of communication is not always particularly effective, where Roman is involved. I subsist on facts, and he does not. He needs someone who can better understand how he looks at the world.”

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know what Logan is getting at. “I wasn’t exactly super helpful the last time I tried to talk to him,” he points out. “I think I made it worse, actually. You do know that’s what I do, right?”

But Logan just looks at him, his eyes big and dark behind his glasses, and for just a second, Remus wonders what would happen if the glass broke and went into his eyes. How do eyes bleed? Or perhaps, the eyes and the glass could meld together, making his eyes a kaleidoscope, shimmering in the light.

He shakes himself. And then shakes himself a bit more, because doing that always makes him feel better.

“I think I’ve got an idea,” he says. “But I’ve got a lot of ideas, about a lot of stuff. No telling where this one will go.”

“At this point, I think the best any of us can do is try.”

And, well. That settles that, doesn’t it? Even though this is a terrible idea, letting him spearhead this, because he’s never been good at doing anything but tearing things down, creating monstrosities only to dissect them and see what makes them tick. And he delights in it, delights in himself; Roman always forgets that he’s only one half of the ego, that _Remus_ is the one who gives Thomas those irrational confidence-boosters, the ones that come out of nowhere and make him feel like he could take on the world, whether doing so is actually a good idea or not.

He has confidence to spare. Just not where this is concerned.

But, he thinks that makes two of them. It’s Roman’s confidence that’s taken the biggest hit lately, his self-worth; what he needs most is an opportunity to prove himself.

So, Remus breaks into his room, screaming at the top of his lungs, slings Roman over one shoulder before he can object, and whooshes them both away to the Imagination.

Roman is slow to react, but he does react, which Remus will take as a positive sign.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he screeches, pounding on Remus’ back with all the strength of a tiny little baby. “Put me down!”

Remus obliges, dumping Roman on his ass because he’s a fantastic brother like that. He gives him a moment to collect himself before drawing his morningstar and assuming a broad stance, lips tilting upward into the wildest grin he can summon up. Which is pretty wild, for him; frankly, he thinks he must look fantastic, and he wishes he had someone here who would actually appreciate it.

“So, we meet again, my erstwhile nemesis!” he crows, swinging the morningstar in looping circles. “I hope you came prepared to do battle, because we’re doing some battle, and there’s absolutely nothing you can do to get out of it!”

Roman clambers to his feet slowly, too slowly for his liking, but he gathers up all the patience he can manage while Roman gets his bearings. Which isn’t very much, admittedly, because now that they’re here, he’s practically vibrating with anticipation, mapping out the fight in his mind, and he wants to get started, wants to move, wants the insults and the clash of steel and the blood splatters and the dance. But it’s enough to let Roman look around himself, to take in the scenery, to absorb the raging battle around them and smoke burning high on the air, the screams of horses as they fall and the shouts of knights as they attack the worst sorts of monsters that Remus can think of.

“I don’t have time for this,” Roman says. There is something unidentifiable flickering in his eyes, something halfway between irritated and bleak, and this, _this_ is why Remus is doing this, because seeing that look there? Not good. Not fun. Not exciting. It needs to go.

“Oh?” he replies. “And after I went through all this trouble?”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“Nobody ever asks me to do anything.” He points the morningstar at Roman. “Now draw your sword and have at thee, Prince Primps-a-lot!”

“Remus—”

He doesn’t give Roman time to finish the thought; he is moving, leaping forward, bringing his morningstar around for a solid blow to the head, and Roman barely brings his sword up in time to deflect the attack.

“Cut it out!” he shouts, and Remus grins, baring all of his teeth, as his blood courses through him, hot and thrilled and ready for something to finally, _finally_ happen. It’s been too long since they did something like this; he doesn’t know why he didn’t think of it sooner.

“If you want me to stop,” he says, and then steps in close, locking their weapons together so that they’re chest to chest, “you’re going to have to make me.”

Roman growls and disengages, his shoulders heaving with every breath he takes. Remus waits, expectant.

And then, Roman charges.

From there on out, it is familiar territory. It begins with anger, with Roman focusing on him and only him, trying to take out his frustrations through his sword, but gradually, they fall back into old patterns, back into the scene. Roman’s eyes become brighter and brighter, and he starts to make use of what Remus has created, adding his own touches here and there, taking command of the knights and directing them as their leader. In return, he controls the monsters, trying his very best to up the carnage levels at every opportunity.

It’s a game they used to play a lot. It has a simple basis: good versus evil, knights versus monsters, hero versus villain.

It looks different now, of course. Roman almost loses several times before he settles in, gets comfortable; his confidence is shaky at the start, his participation in the scenario hesitant. And sometimes, he makes moves that Remus doesn’t expect, issues an order or creates something that the epitome of a Disney prince would never think to do, but for once, he thinks it would be wiser to keep his mouth shut about it.

Logan’s right, after all. Roman needs to grow, he thinks. Princes can’t stay princes forever.

But there’s also no need to push the issue now. No need to jump off that cliff until he’s found where the bottom is. Or something like that, something to do with breaking and healing and making something new out of yourself when what you are in the present isn’t enough to sustain you. He doesn’t know. This isn’t his strongest area. He’ll leave the emotional competency to literally anyone else. Not his department.

But Roman is changing, and he needs to be assured that he’s still _himself_ , is still, at his core, _good_ , even if not flawless, even if not a perfect _hero_ , so that’s what Remus gives him.

It ends with Roman standing over him, his sword at his throat. The monsters are slain, the remaining knights claiming victory, and Remus is almost at the end of his rope as far as his focus is concerned, but it’s a classic end to a classic battle, and he can only hope that this has helped to heal something. Because that was the point. Dealing some physical wounds to fix the non-physical. Working out issues through a little blood and mayhem.

“Do you yield?” Roman demands. Familiar words in a familiar query. He rolls his eyes.

“I guess I don’t have much of a choice.” Well, that’s not true. He has more fight left in him, if he wanted to push the issue. But he got what he came for, he thinks. “How about you, you work some of the dumbassery out of your system?”

“The what—”

“The _moping_. Seriously, you wanna tell me you have no idea what this was about?” He sits up, shoving Roman’s sword to the side; barehanded, so it slices his fingers a bit, and he watches the blood run out of the corner of his eye. “You can still be a hero, you big lump. Just look at what you pulled off!”

He gestures widely, and Roman’s grip on his sword falters.

“That’s not—” He shakes his head. “Just because I can do this here doesn’t mean I’m what Thomas needs.”

He shrugs. He has no idea what the big deal is about that. Thomas-this and Thomas-that, when Remus knows all too well that _Thomas_ is hardly an expert on his own sides. Isn’t this how they got into this mess in the first place? A lack of self-care, a lack of self- _awareness_?

“Don’t worry so much about _Thomas_ ,” he says. “Just be you. That’s enough.”

Roman stares.

“Remus—”

His voice sounds all wet and wobbly, like he’s about to start crying, and no, nope nope nope, that’s it, that’s enough sincerity, he is allergic to sincerity like this, and he’s about to start breaking out into hives all over his body, itchy and red and swollen, and _that_ would be interesting but this conversation is _not_.

“Okay, so, we’re good here, right?” He scrambles to his feet, backing up a few paces. “‘Cause I’ve got, like, some tentacle monsters I’ve been working on for Thomas’ nightmares, and—”

Roman drags him into a hug.

He’s not sure what kind of noise he makes— a cross between a dying seagull and choir of zombies all singing in different keys while their tongues fall out of their mouths, he thinks, but maybe it’s something entirely different, because he’s hardly paying attention— and he doesn’t really care, because his muscles do a weird thing where they all lock up and then melt into the contact. Roman is gripping him really, really tight, and there should be a comment to make here, something to ruin the moment, something entirely unbefitting the situation. There _should_ be, and there _is_ , but the words won’t form, can’t claw their way out of his throat.

“Thank you,” Roman says. “You’re the best.”

_What._

He doesn’t think he’s heard Roman say that since. Well. Ever.

There’s something warm and bubbly in his stomach, in his chest, and it feels like indigestion, but he doesn’t think that’s it.

“Uh, no shit I am,” he croaks, and huh, maybe it would have been better not to respond at all, because that is way too much emotional vulnerability creeping into his voice right there. He didn’t think he even _did_ emotional vulnerability, but there you go. He can it on Logan, probably, for prompting him to do this in the first place. “Uh, so do you, uh, need anything, or—?”

Roman pulls back so he can look him in the face, and yep, his eyes are all red and leaking and shiny. Disgusting. But at the same time, his gaze is level, and strong in a way Remus hasn’t seen for quite some time now. He tells himself that he doesn’t care, that this whole thing was just to get Roman to stop being so dismal and _annoying_ , but—

At his core, he’s too honest for that.

“No,” Roman says. “No, I think I’m gonna be okay.”

So just this once, Remus decides to let it go, to not examine it too closely. Because Roman is doing _better_ , and that’s _good_. That’s what he wanted all along, really.

So he grins and gives Roman a wet willy, because it’s his prerogative to be annoying, and when Roman shouts and curses at him and tries to tackle him as if he thinks that will actually _do_ something, he tears off at a run, throwing a look over his shoulder that just _dares_ Roman to try to catch him. And when Roman starts after him, face narrow in mock outrage, he grins and lets out a loud whoop, reveling in this moment, in the freedom and lack of restraint and the ideas for the future that spin out ahead of him, gross and bloody and inappropriate and glorious. He rattles off as many as he can think of, even as Roman yells at him, and the joy bursting in his chest is bright and vivacious and impossible to suppress. Not that he would want to.

He is, after all, himself, and he has never wanted to be anything else.

**Author's Note:**

> Before this, Remus was the only side whose pov I hadn't written for, and... boy. He's tricky to pin down. So I'd love to know what y'all think about his characterization here lol. But anyway, I had fun with this, and I hope you guys liked it!
> 
> I'm @whenisitenoughtrees on tumblr, if you would like to stop by!


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